


That Would Be Enough

by PurpleFeatheredChickadee



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst, Blend of History and Musical Canon, Dueling, Figured I should mention it even though it's only one vague sentence, First fic for Hamilton and it's this, Gen, I tried to blend it as seamlessly as possible., I'm Sorry, Internalized Homophobia, One Shot, blood mention, lams if you squint, letters to a lost friend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-07
Updated: 2016-10-07
Packaged: 2018-08-20 01:26:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8231378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PurpleFeatheredChickadee/pseuds/PurpleFeatheredChickadee
Summary: "In order to preserve my legacy—Jefferson was accusing me of betraying the Nation, you know I would never do such a thing—he forced my hand, I had no other option. No one else seems to be aware of that certainty, and thus I find myself writing to you, my dear Laurens, as I fear you may be my only friend who would understand my decisions in this predicament."Alexander Hamilton's life is in shambles. With the world against him, he finds himself writing to the one person who would understand- even if he's been gone for years.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! Look at me, finally using this account. That being said, I have no idea how the formatting of this site works, so it may look weird while I try to figure this out. Bear with me. 
> 
> As I said in the tags, this has a combination of historical fact and musical canon sprinkled throughout. I changed some of the dialogue to fill in some of the blanks left in the song lyrics/make it sound more like spoken dialogue/etc. Long blocks of italicized text are either flashbacks or letters- basically anything related to John. I came up with this on the fly in between classes, I definitely didn't mean to make it 8 pages long.
> 
> Come yell at me on Tumblr.  
> [Here!](%E2%80%9Csewing-and-showtunes.tumblr.com%E2%80%9D)

            _My dearest Laurens, it appears as though I have found myself in the aftermath of another rash decision, something of which I am certain you would understand, seeing as you yourself paid the ultimate price…_ The quill acts on its own accord, scratching a multitude of thin lines through the second half of the sentence.

 Deep breath. Try again.  _Quite a few years ago, I found myself in a particular situation regarding a Mrs. Maria Reynolds. In the state of exhaustion that I had been in, having had refused the vacation prompted to me by my dear wife and her sister, I was quick to fall for Mrs. Reynolds’ charm, and had been swayed into adultery. Of this, I am ashamed to admit, not because of what I had done—the guilty feelings for that have long since passed—but by how I had attempted to remedy the situation. Thomas Jefferson— a horrible fellow, I am happy you never had the displeasure of making his acquaintance— caught wind of the agreement I had made with Mrs. Reynolds’ husband. In order to preserve my legacy—Jefferson was accusing me of betraying the Nation, you know I would never do such a thing—he forced my hand, I had no other option. No one else seems to be aware of that certainty, and thus I find myself writing to you, my dear Laurens, as I fear you may be my only friend who would understand my decisions in this predica—_ The last four letters are blurred. The quill is set on the desk, an inquisitive hand discovering the wet streak down his face, revealing the culprit of the destroyed penmanship was a stray tear.

“Pa?” A girl’s voice interrupted his thoughts making him briskly wipe the tear’s path from his face and close the letter before turning.

“Angie, what is it?” The man turned to his daughter, trying not to cringe at the look on her face. Angie looked so much like her mother. _Eliza…_   

“Lunch. Do you want me to bring it to you?” she asked, risking a glance at the letter, which had reopened, in front of her father before looking back at his face. “You seem busy.”

He pondered the idea, before shaking his head. “I’ll be down in a moment, I just want to finish this first,” he sent a small smile to his eldest daughter, which she returned after a moment.

“Alright then.” He turned back to his desk, staring at the letter as he waited for her to leave. Before his office door closed, however, the question that had been burning in his stomach for a few weeks finally found its way to his lips before he could stop it.

“Do you hate me too?” he whispered, half-hoping his daughter hadn’t heard. Eliza hadn’t said a word to him since the pamphlet describing his affair had been published. Unfortunately, her older sister had, her normally charming wit burning red-hot with anger. _Congratulations. You have created a new kind of stupid. God, I hope you’re satisfied,_ her voice echoed through his brain almost daily, completely against his will. Certainly if Peggy was still alive, she’d agree with her too. He was alone.

“No, Pa. I don’t hate you. Ma doesn’t hate you either, neither does Aunt Angelica, although she tried to,” Angie punctuated her last thought with a laugh, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and hugging him from behind his chair. It was awkward, as her corset refused to allow her to bend, but the sentiment was appreciated nonetheless. “We love you Pa, you just made a few,” she paused, “alright, _quite a few_ bad decisions,” her father tensed under her arms at her words; she tightened her hold on him for a moment, “but it’ll work out, of that I’m certain,” Angie whispered as she pulled away. “I’ll tell Ma to expect you downstairs, don’t take too long.”

He nodded, turning back to the letter. He dipped his quill back into the inkwell before touching the paper again.

_My apologies for the sloppiness of this letter, my dearest Laurens, but I have had more difficulty controlling my thoughts as of late. I have not written to you in quite some time, of which I deeply regret. Although I Am still waiting for your response to my last letter… you always were terrible at replying, John. I realized in our correspondence I never had the pleasure to tell you about my child, a young boy we named Philip, born the twenty-second of January, 1782. I do wish you were more than a story to him, my dear friend. He is a brilliant young man, having just graduated from King’s College— although I believe it is referred to as Columbia College now, forgive me for the use of the old name— at the ripe age of nineteen. Some of our companions claim his features are similar to mine, but whenever I look at him, I see you. If I was unaware of your affliction, I would be inclined to say that he was in fact your child, however similar he may be to myself in mind._

He stood, his quill back in its designated place before walking quickly down the stairs, following the scent of the meal his wife had prepared. He haphazardly ran his fingers through his hair, the sensation of his nails against his scalp bringing a strange sense of comfort to combat the nervous jitters that returned to his fingers. His wife stood at the head of the table, her back turned to him. She heard his approach, of that he is certain, as his children all greeted him, but she gave no response. He slumped, his shoulders drooping as his hand returns to his hair. Glancing at the waiting bowl of stew in front of him, he surveyed the facial expressions of his children. Reassurance from Angie, pity from Alexander Jr. and James, confusion from John, and blissful indifference from the youngest two, as they were far too young to understand what he had done. The silence was thick and uncomfortable only getting worse as it became evident that Eliza had no intention of speaking to him. He kept glancing at her, praying for her to turn around, to _smile_ , to acknowledge him in any way at all. Hell, he’d prefer her screaming at him than this. If she’d only look at him, that’d be enough for now.

Glancing back at the table, he realized the children’s bowls had all been cleared. He raised a brow; there was _no way_ he had taken that long to write. Angie seemed to have read his face, as she spoke a moment later, “We had, uh, already started eating when I went to fetch you. You seemed busy, I didn’t want to interrupt, but,” she paused, “you didn’t come down for breakfast today either.” Didn’t he? “…you didn’t, Pa.” This child is too smart; she really is just like Angelica. “Mom’s taking us all out to the park, she said that the fresh air would be good for little Liza. Would you… want to come with us?”

Yes. Every fibre of his being said _Yes._ But one look at Eliza’s face told him that was a terrible idea. Her eyes are clouded, completely lacking in their typical inquisitive light; that alone broke his heart all over again. Once again, he found himself wishing for anger. He wanted her to be angry, craved for her passionate nature to be directed toward him again, positive or negative no longer mattered. “Betsey…” he murmured, praying the nickname would get some kind of reaction.

Nothing. The normally witty, passionate, expressive Elizabeth Schuyler Hamilton was _broken._ And it was entirely his fault.

He shrunk into himself more, curling up as much as he could while standing. “No, Angie. It’s alright, spend time with your mother. I’ll see you when you get home.”

"Alright…” Angie trailed off, glancing between her parents. “Your stew should still be warm, try to eat it before it gets too cold, okay?” He nodded, sitting in the chair as the rest of his family left the room, each child responding to him differently. Angie kissed his cheek, Junior and James patting his shoulder as they passed, yet another quizzical look from John, and a “Buh-bye Pa!” from William. Eliza walked by his chair after them, glancing down at him for a moment, but leaving in silence, little Eliza in her arms.

Eventually the main door is shut, leaving him alone with his thoughts, which was dangerous as of late. His mind wandered to the letter sitting on his desk upstairs, mainly the last thought stained into the parchment. _If I was unaware of your affliction, I would be inclined to say that he was in fact your child, however similar he may be to myself in mind._ The similarities between Philip and John were astounding. The same chaotic freckles covered his face, they have the same smile, hell they even sounded the same sometimes. He sees John in Philip at almost every moment. The way they moved their arms frantically when they got excited, granted, he did that too, but there’s something so unbelievably _John_ that it makes his heart hurt. They never got to meet. What would John have taught Philip, had he had the chance? Certainly he would’ve been around, he had spoken well enough about the man to Eliza that he’d be at their home almost constantly. Would he have helped teach him French? He laughed to himself. Probably. Hercules would be upset. ‘Even the kid knows French!’ Hercules Mulligan, when had he last written him?  

The slamming of the main door startled him from his thoughts. By the time he was standing, his stew forgotten, he was no longer alone in the kitchen. His eldest son, hair as haphazard as the freckles that covered his face, stormed into the room with a fire in his eyes that his father had only ever seen on the battlefield. _John._ “Philip! What is it?”

“Pops if you had only heard the _shit_ he said about you! I doubt you would’ve let it slide and I was not _about to!_ ” Philip shouted quickly, arms flailing.

“Philip, slow down.  Who are you talking about?”

“ _Eacker,_ Pops! He- “Philip made a frustrated noise, slamming his hand on the table, “He was talking like he _knew you!_ He doesn’t know you! And then when I confronted him about it, he had the...” he searched for the word, “ _audacity_ to call you a _scoundrel!_ To call _me_ a scoundrel! Who the hell does he think he is?” The light in his eyes shifted from anger to fear, a transition his father knew well from his days as a soldier. The seeds of dread began planting themselves in his stomach as he waited for his son to continue. “I,” he paused again, “I came to ask for your advice. They don’t exactly cover dueling in boarding school,” he finished the statement, averting his eyes.

“He challenged you to a duel?”

Philip bit his lip, his eyes transfixed on the floor. “Well, no. I challenged him. We’re to duel in Weehawken”

“Philip, why would-”

“He disparaged your _legacy_ , Pops! In front of a _crowd!_ He called you, the great Alexander Hamilton, a _traitor_! I couldn’t let him get away with that! Someone had to hold him to it!”

_“Strong words from Lee, someone oughta hold him to it,” A similarly speckled face stared at him, fire lighting his eyes. “I’ll do it. Alexander, you’re the closest friend I’ve got.”_

“ _Laurens, do not-“_

“Throw away your shot. Stand there like a man until Eacker is in front of you, then slowly and clearly aim your gun toward the sky and fire. That will put an end to the whole affair.”

“What?” Phillip was dumbfounded. “Well, what if he decides to shoot? Then I’m a goner.”

“No,” he said quickly. “He called me a scoundrel, correct?” Philip nodded. “So he must find himself to be a man of honor, as he is so quick to judge me of dishonorable action. If he is truly a man of honor, he’ll follow suit.”

“But—”

“We—your mother can’t take another heartbreak.”

_Fire! The shots rang out, and he found himself with eyes clamped shut, only to snap open at the sound of someone dropping to the ground. He looked to his left in a panic, mentally preparing to see his companion on the ground._

_“I hit him!” came John’s response, both pride and relief coating his voice. He felt himself deflate as he scanned his companion for injuries only to find him completely unharmed._

_“Lee, do you yield?!” he heard his own voice ring out._

_John’s opponent stood, his shirt bloody where the bullet made contact with his side. From what he could see, it didn’t appear to be a deadly wound, although a doctor was undoubtedly still needed. “Again.”_

_“Are you mad? You’re hit! You lost, Lee!” Again, his voice rang out without his consent._

_“The bullet barely scraped me. Again.”_

_“Fine! We’ll fire again!” John shouted. He turned. “Alexander, I hit him once! He’s a terrible shot! I’ll be fine!”_

_“No. You… You’ve already hit him, John. I’m not… we can’t afford you getting shot in a battle that’s already won. I’ll talk to his second. Get this sorted out.”_

“Okay, Pops. In the air. I promise.”

“Good. Here. Come back home the second it’s done. Take my guns. Make me proud, son.”

With one final nod, Philip was out the door, and his father once again found himself alone with his own thoughts. If memory serves, Eacker was considerably older than Philip, certainly he was only trying to scare the boy. There was no possibility that Philip was in danger. However, knots of anxiety had twisted themselves in his stomach, and so he retired to his office, the stew left to congeal on the table.

_It seems, Laurens, that my boy’s frame of mind may be a combination of both of our recklessness. He has challenged a Mr. George Eacker in a duel to defend my honor, much as we challenged Lee in defense of General Washington. It is not in Eacker’s interest to hurt my son; I believe he is older than my son by quite a few years, surely he is of an age level too mature to risk shooting a nineteen-year-old boy. He is only trying to scare him into submission. Philip is going to throw away his shot, Eacker will do the same, and I will have my son back in my arms by noon. I believe he might have been convinced to challenge the man to a duel in the first place, Philip is not a violent boy, nor has he shown any ability to hurt others. Perhaps this will teach him not to challenge every person who makes him angry, and make him a better man than you or I._

If he heard his family return home, he didn’t acknowledge it. He had joined them for dinner on his own accord, but he was again greeted with deafening silence, thus spurring the man to shoot a guilty look toward his children before retreating back into the office. He stayed there until dawn before deciding to take a walk as the sun inched its way into the sky.

 New York at dawn was strangely peaceful, no sounds beside the birds and his own footsteps interrupting the serenity of the silence. Normally, the silence bothered him, as silence typically meant nothing was being done; but today was different. The silence was welcoming him like an old friend, and for the first time in a long time, Alexander Hamilton felt that everything would work out.

 

“ _Where is my son!?”_ he screeched. How had this happened? Philip was in no danger; he had been so certain. He had told him not to fire, he had _told him to throw the shot away_ and now _…_  

Philip was sprawled out on a table, a very noticeable red stain peeking out from under his arm on his stomach. The stench of infection oozing from his son almost made him vomit, and he knew at that moment, it was extremely unlikely that Philip would survive.

“Pa…” Philip called out, calling him the name he had stopped using years ago. “I did exactly what you said Pa. I held my head up h-high,” he managed, wincing in pain on the last syllable.

“Shhh I know, I know,” he tried soothing his son, gripping his non-wounded hand tightly in his own. “You did everything just right.”

“Even before we got to ten… I was aiming for the sky,” tears flowed freely from his eyes, Philip seemingly aware of his own fate. He gripped his father’s hand, using his fleeting strength to pull himself into a semi-upright position, immediately getting support from his father’s other arm under his shoulder blades. “I was aiming toward the sk-ky,” he winced again, leaning back against his father’s arm as the effort to sit up became too great. Alexander held his son, trying to be strong for the two of them, but unable to ignore the heavy weight of guilt pulling at his stomach. He should have talked him out of it. He should’ve _been there_. He didn’t even ask who Philip’s second was. It was probably that friend of his, Richard Price, if he wasn’t the one who pressured Philip into the duel in the first place. He _knew_ his son. Philip wouldn’t have called for a duel out of his own anger. He should have been there. He could’ve stopped it, he could’ve-

He was opening his mouth to speak again when he heard her, the voice he hadn’t gotten to hear for weeks now. “Is he breathing? Is he going to survive this? Who _did this??_ Alexander, did you know?!” Eliza dashed to his side, moving his hand to grab her son’s tightly in her own. Alexander let her take Philip’s hand, using his now free hand to run his fingers through his son’s hair, too focused on his child to register that his wife was speaking to _him_.

Philip took a shuddering breath, the action visibly straining the poor boy. He was trying to speak, but it seemed to take a few tries before the words leave his lips. “Mom, I’m so sorry. I’ve forgotten what you’ve taught me,” he paused, another painful sounding breath passing, “we played piano.” It sounded uncertain, his voice lilting at the end like an unasked question.

“I taught you piano,” Eliza responded, her tone encouraging. “Keep talking, love. Please.”

“You would put your hands on mine.”

She gave a small laugh, the undertones sad, “You changed the melody every time.”

Philip returned her shaky smile “I would always change the line…” his bright eyes began to dim, exhaustion morphing his features. “I would always the line…”

“Do you remember the exercise we used to do?” she prompted, coaxing him to speak. He gave a small nod, so she continued. “Good. Repeat after me, alright? _Un deux trois quatre cinq six sept huit neuf,”_ she sang, soft and sweet.

He did as he was told, altering the melody on ‘sept.’ She tried to scowl at him, but the upturn tugging at the end of her lips betrayed her. Even exhausted, he managed to give her his trademark shit-eating grin.  She shook her head, trying to laugh but only getting a shuddering breath. “Good,” she said, her voice surprisingly steady. She sang it again, the scale descending, nodding when she heard him come in.

Silence.

“ _Sept, huit, neuf.”_ she repeats. Pause. Silence. “Philip?” she prompted. She glanced at her husband, his face dark. He relaxed his son back against the table, one hand tugging painfully at his hair.  “ _Sept, huit…_ Philip? _”_ She leaned over her husband, resting her hand against her son’s face. As she angled his face toward hers it fell limply in her desired direction, his head clacking audibly against the table.

Nothing.

Eliza screamed.

Alexander was silent. He had one hand tangled tightly into his own hair, the other lovingly stroking the top of his son’s head. He wanted to cry, he wanted to scream alongside Eliza, but he couldn’t. No matter how hard he tried, his mind was silent. Alexander Hamilton was broken; and it was entirely his own fault.

His gaze was locked on Philip’s face, begging for his son to wake, for his cacophonous web of thought to return to him, for some sign that he was still alive, whether “he” was his son or himself, he wasn’t sure. A voice cut through the silence of grief, the tone warm and familiar. It belonged to someone he missed dearly; Alexander shuddered as the voice grew, singing a song he had long since tried to forget.

_“I may not live to see our glory,  
            But I will gladly join the fight.” _

The pair went home in silence, both unable to look at the other. The front door of their home swung open without either of them reaching for the handle. He wasn’t certain he could’ve opened it on his own anyway; his arms were made of lead and he was certain his wife’s were the same. It took a moment to focus on the figure in the doorway, but eventually the wide-eyed face of his daughter came into view. She glanced around her parents, her hands flying to her mouth as the asked the silent question no one wanted aloud. He looked at the ground, focusing on the ant crawling along the walkway. He caught a glimpse of Eliza moving. There was a _thud_ , and his daughter suddenly came into view without him needing to look up.

She had crumpled in the doorway, her hands covering her face as she sobbed into them. Was she screaming? He couldn’t tell, his hearing was as muffled as his vision was blurry. It took a tear dropping on the ground for him to realize he was crying. Tears fell freely from his eyes, his face angled enough for the tears to seep into the cloth of his neckstock, soaking the fabric. 

He was in his office. How he got there, he was uncertain; judging by the lack of light, it was evening. The salt of his tears clung onto his face and neck, hardening the already stiff cloth around his throat. His candle was lit; he didn’t remember lighting it. Gripping his quill tightly in his hand, he grabbed the piece of parchment from the day before.

            _My dearest Laurens, my eldest son is on his way to meet you after all. He is a wonderful, powerful, and intelligent man; I am certain he will give you a run for your money. Please keep your reminiscing to a minimum until I can join you; there are a few stories I never had the chance to tell him, stories he should hear first from his father, I am sure you know the ones. If you could keep an eye on him, that would be enough. You will recognize him instantly, I am certain. After all, he has your freckles._

_Forever yrs,_

_A.Hamilton_

**Author's Note:**

> Fun facts! (Footnotes)  
> -Capitalizing a non-proper noun in the middle of a sentence is actually something Hamilton did. Think of it like 18th century italics.  
> -King's College became Columbia College in 1784 before finally becoming the Columbia University we all know.  
> -"unaware of your affliction" refers to John being gay. Had to take historical-based internalized homophobia into account. I feel like that was the closest I could get. I hope that was clear. Translate it as "If I didn't know you were gay, I'd say you slept with my wife."  
> -They weren't in the musical, so it might not be common knowledge, but Alexander and Eliza had 8 total children. At the time of Philip's death (before the birth of their youngest sibling), Angelica would've been 17, Alex Jr. 15, James 14, John 9, William 4, Elizabeth Jr "Eliza" about 2.  
> -George Eacker was 27 years old when he dueled Philip Hamilton.  
> -Eacker had claimed that Hamilton would overthrow the Jefferson administration by force. It's a little wordy, so I said "traitor" instead. As you know, the scoundrel line is from the show.  
> -This is a slightly more accurate version of the Lee/Laurens duel. They fired, Lee missed, Laurens hit him in the side. Lee then demanded they go again, John agreed, but was coerced out of it by Hamilton and Lee's second (Evan Edwards, not Burr)  
> -"we can’t afford you getting shot in a battle that’s already won." Get it? Because Laurens died in a battle after the British surrendered? I don't know, I thought it was clever.  
> -Richard Price was actually a friend of Philip Hamilton! He went with Philip to confront Eacker, and had actually dueled him the day before Philip did. No one was injured.
> 
> I think that's it! This is the first thing I've typed up in a year that didn't involve Spanish or Educational Psychology (#CollegeKidProblems) so I may be a little rusty, but I hope you enjoyed it anyway! I did a whole bunch of research before I wrote this, so hopefully the historical facts in here are valid. (I haven't seen the show yet, so creative liberty had been taken.)  
> Kudos/Comments are greatly appreciated!
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
